


hard to hide a hundred girls in your hair

by somethingdifferent



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And how Abigail needs some control, And love, And power, Cannibalism, Character Study, Everyone lives, Feminist Themes, Gen, I'm just crying about the finale, Wow don't even pay attention to me, post season two finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 00:18:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>it won't be fair if i hate her, if i ate her</em>
</p><p>He never taught her to pull the trigger. This is something you must learn for yourself, he whispered into her hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hard to hide a hundred girls in your hair

 

_1_

Pay attention. Abigail Hobbs has her hands in the stomach of a deer. Pay attention, Abigail. Her father is speaking to her. Pay attention, I'm going to show you how to dress her properly. Abby, precious girl, my Abigail, you can do this. I promise. His fingers slide easily against her shoulder blade, along the pale skin of her wrist as he takes control of her hand around the blade. Abigail. His voice is heavy with an accent. Abigail has her hands inside a body with long, dark hair. Abigail. The accented voice again. Don't open your eyes, Abigail. She keeps them shut. Here there be monsters, the voice says. They'll gobble you up.

 

_2_

A man touches his hand to her cheek. I'm sorry, he says, and rips her throat wide open. A man touches his hand to her cheek. I'm sorry, he says, and rips her throat wide open. A man touches his hand to her cheek. He doesn't say anything at all. He still tears her apart.

 

_3_

Abigail grows afraid. Of girls with long, dark hair, of men with hunting rifles, of her face in the mirror. Abigail, her mother says at dinner, you've hardly touched your food. When she smiles, her mouth is wrong, her eyes are bright. Her father grins, taking another bite of his kill. C'mon, Abby. Eat something. You and I dressed her together. Abigail swallows down the food too fast to taste it.

 

_4_

Hannibal hides her. In different places, large and small and wide and narrow. He teaches her very quickly how to fold herself up, be small and silent, accommodate herself to his taste. His appetite. Here, he tells her, with a hand tugged through her hair. Here, he tells her, with a hand against her waist. Here, he tells her, with his hand around her arm. I'll teach you how to dress your kill. His hand moves in time with hers, moving her wrist to pull the knife through the flesh. It is best to do it quickly, he says over the screams and the blood. Men are not deer.

 

_5_

She knows how to hunt. It's something her father taught her. They went out on trips when she was a little girl, pitched a tent and stargazed in the forest. The trees were tall and thin, branches curved toward the ground like the hook of a fishing lure. In the cold light of the early morning, her father taught her how to stalk a deer and load a gun and dress her kill. He never taught her how to pull the trigger. This is something you must learn for yourself, he whispered into her hair.

 

_6_

Will Graham has his hand around her neck. When she was young (she was never young, never had the time, and Hannibal had promised it with his accented voice and never gave, always promised, never gave), she grew used to the touches of men. Family friends patting at the small of her back, their hands dipped too low, her father's caress along her shoulders and cheeks and through her hair, Hannibal's strong arms wrapped around her (and for a time that was the safest place to be, but that time has long since passed, and his arms feel less like a shield and more like a weapon). Will Graham's hands are shaking as he touches her, as he places his fingers oh so carefully against the gaping wound of her throat, the exact same place, every time. He touches her as if she were something holy. Abigail is choking on her own blood. His hands fall away, and it flows out in rivers.

 

_7_

Her father gives her a gift for her seventeenth birthday. You'll be leaving soon. I wanted to give you something to remember me by. I'm not dying, Dad. She opens the box, wraps the silver chain of the necklace around her fingers. She opens the locket and finds it empty. You can decide what to put in it. She gets blood in it on their next hunting trip. I'm not dying, Dad. She's crying. I'm not dying because you already killed me.

 

_8_

Will is barely breathing next to her when the ambulances come. Abigail can see the lights as they shine off the dark wooden cabinets. Hannibal's taste, as always, immaculate. Never in question. They shine, red, blue, back and forth, over and over. Like Christmas lights. She can feel Will's hand over her shoulder, tangled in her hair. She can see the paramedic's black jacket as she closes her eyes.

 

_9_

Abigail. Look at me. Her father smiles, his eyes bright behind the lens of the camera recorder. Happy birthday, Abby. How old are you today? She raises her left hand, splays her fingers widely. Such a big girl. Wave to the camera. She obeys. Hi. Her hand is small against the table. I love you, daddy. I love you, too.

 

_10_

When she wakes up, the room around her is white. She is confused for a moment. She had, for some reason, expected it to be darker. Hey, Abigail. Will wraps her hand around her wrist, but his grip is loose, relaxed. You're awake. I was dreaming. Jack and Alana are alright. Okay. He withdraws his hand and settles it on the arm of the hospital wheelchair. Hannibal is gone. Okay. When she swallows, it catches in her throat. I didn't die. He shakes his head slowly. Abigail folds her body in two on the hospital bed. When Will touches his hand to her back, it is light and soft. He does not bend her spine to his liking. When he speaks, his voice is clear and American and not her father's. You didn't die. Abigail covers her face with her hands until she can't see the light. He continues to speak, tracing his hands over her back. I'm here. You're alright. You didn't die. His fingers thread themselves through her hair. Abigail doesn't move away, and he doesn't snap her neck up to his liking. You're alive. You are. We're here together. You and me. I promise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary borrowed from "Cloud On My Tongue," by Tori Amos.


End file.
